


Sherlock Holmes and the limits of transport

by noahlikeswaffles



Series: caring for subs [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Depression, Dom Greg Lestrade, Dom/Sub AU, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sub John, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Subdrop, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahlikeswaffles/pseuds/noahlikeswaffles
Summary: Sherlock is being reckless with his health, and with a big serial killer case on, John and Lestrade almost fail to notice in time.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: caring for subs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182044
Kudos: 25





	Sherlock Holmes and the limits of transport

Sherlock didn't know how it started. 

No, he did. 

He knew what he was doing when he swiped the drugs from the last scene. A few grams missing and a new girl as the forensics tech...Lestrade had given her a dressing down, and John may have thrown a look his way, but Sherlock was getting better at lying. He didn't plan on using it, at first. Just having it in his pocket, under his bed, hidden, secret, _His._

_"Tsk..tsk.. not getting enough attention are we?"_

Shut up Mycroft. Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head trying to clear his brother away like cobwebs.

 _"This is why you must be kept in line, boy, for your own good."_ His mother chastised him, her eyes glowing and her lips curved in a smile. 

Sherlock shivered, memories that even his masochistic mind couldn't stomach filling his head. He groaned, tugging at his hair, the dusty air of the sitting room thick in his nostrils. Mrs. Hudson on holiday in Spain. John at a lecture on public health something or another. Lestrade still at the office with the team... Sherlock would never admit to being something as base as _lonely,_ but the shakes were starting. 

He hadn't told John. He probably should've. Any touch will do for the shakes, even a sub, sometimes especially a sub...something about maternal natures and pheromones and warmth...Sherlock had deleted it long ago. But the shakes? far too painful even for him to forget. It started like a little ball of yarn in his gut, twirling and spinning and pulling out all the threads keeping him from collapsing into his own skin, bit by bit, till his whole chest was heaving and trembling.

short term side effects: convulsions, fever, acute pain and delirium

extended side effects: extreme subdrop, weight loss, atrophy of the limbs, numbness, coma and death if untreated longer than 2 months. 

He spent the night alone. And his stash still lie in the floorboards beneath their bed. 

* * *

Two more days and the sweats came. The case was gaining momentum, and quickly. Three more dead in 48 hours. Sherlock couldn't fault their killer for his efficiency. His modus opperandi was constantly becoming more violent, more sadistic, as each innocent sub was slain- none older than 17- each in a newly depraved manner. 

When they found the young boy with his entire digestive system hanging like a macabre garland around his mutilated rotting corpse, even John had needed a moment outside. Lestrade's eyes looked so fearful, so enraged at the sight of a sub forced to endure such torture, that Sherlock couldn't look at him again. He found himself afraid, completely unreasonably and illogically afraid. He hadn't spoken in the cab home. Neither had John.

Lestrade had said he was needed at the Yard again the whole night, and told them to eat and go to bed. 

When Sherlock had turned away his dinner, John had only nodded weakly, his mind elsewhere, before abandoning his own plate and leaving for a shower. Sherlock had kept his mouth shut. John's limp was back. Sherlock needed to keep his own problems to himself, risk hurt John, put a single more weight on his shoulders. Sherlock shouldn't have been so weak, so pathetic. John needed him to stay rational. To be strong. 

He'd woken up on the floor of the sitting room, surrounded by photos of the dozen crime scenes, ice cold and soaked through his clothes. He moved to get up, his back aching on the cold unforgiving floor, but he didn't, he couldn't. It was as if his veins were pumping lead. 

He shook, trembling and spasming in the dark. He wanted Lestrade, he wanted John. 

Not now. No. No he had to solve the case first. If he couldn't solve one measly case without a drop, he'd be pathetic. He just needed to stop being such a baby. 

He whimpered, and tears filled his eyes, and he turned over in the darkened, empty room. 

* * *

Two weeks. No leads. 

His mind was deteriorating. He realized this as he stared at his reflection in the green porcelain bathroom. He was alone in the flat, John and Lestrade had gone to re-interview the latest victim's girlfriend. 

Sherlock knew that there would be no new information. 

He also knew that he would only be a hindrance. 

His tired, bloodshot eyes and sallow skin reminded him of this. His transport betraying him once again, the stale rot that was enveloping him was beginning to seep into his skull. His thoughts had lost their connective tissue, and he found himself wandering his mind palace, finding himself without a map in it's expanses. 

The library devoted to John-memories had locked itself from the inside. He found himself wondering if perhaps they would all disintegrate, if he couldn't access them. 

These thoughts were the most disturbing of the lot. 

His hands were shaking as he washed them in the far-too-cold water of the tap. Pale, translucent fingers and wrists stared back at him, knobby and pearly white. Blue rivers tucked beneath his skin thumped faintly. 

_Don't, Sherlock._ Greg whispered in his mind, his hand against Sherlock's nape as he rest at his Master's feet. _Don't fail me._

Sherlock sucked in a shallow breath, his lip drawn in his teeth, heartbeat thumping loud in his ears. John's shelf in the cabinet was neat and tidy, like John. Shaving cream, aftershave for special occasions, toothpicks, deodorant and his razor. Sherlock took it reverently, careful not to drop it, and examined the blade. It clicked out of position easily, dropping with a clink in the basin. 

_You should have solved it by now, if you weren't so stupid. Such a stupid little sub, you can't do anything right, can you?_

Shut up, Mycroft. Shut up Shut up Shut up. 

_You deserve this, it's for your own good. Maybe it'll teach you to stop being such a nuisance._

Sherlock trembled as he picked up the blade carefully in his fingers, accidentally nicking himself a bit on the print of his index. A pebbled drop of blood drizzled down his hand, and he gasped. It didn't hurt that much, it was barely a pinprick.

He swallowed, holding the blade to his right wrist, because that was his bow arm. Daddy and John like it when he plays violin. It would be selfish to ruin the one thing he'd good for. 

He slit across his wrist, pressing harder than he had when he'd done this before. Harder than he knew was good for him. He didn't flinch from the pain, which left him rather dizzy, the bubbles of blood popping and slithering down to his hands, into the sink. He took the blade into his other hand, his arm barely strong enough to hold it, before cutting at his left wrist, with no particular neatness. The cuts that were rows began to zig zag across eachother, drag and skip because he couldn't keep his fingers still enough. 

The naesea hit him in a wave as he looked at the sink full of pinkish bloody water. He tumbled backwards in a fit of vertigo, purple and green spots dancing in his eyes. He tumbled backwards, pulling the shower curtain down with him as he collapsed into the bath. 

His eyelids were heavy as he tried to push himself up, but his arms were weak, his mind was fuzzy, he couldn't _think._ He hit his head against the tiled wall before sinking into a deep and welcome sleep. 


End file.
